"Don't tell them," Rory repeated, his eyes gaping with desperation. "If you tell any of the others, I swear-"

"Sherlock probably already knows, Rory," Dean sighed, staring at Rory sympathetically. "Trust me, I won't tell them if you don't want me to- but they all know you're upset, and you're going to have to bluff it and come up with a lie they're going to believe."

"I..." he ran a hand through his head, his emotions rising in his chest. "I don't even know what to do..."

"Shit, this is really bothering you isn't it?"

"I don't want to throw all this onto you-"

"Dude, it's fine!" he grunted in response. "You think I haven't had to deal with worse having to cope with Sam? Just talk, seriously."

"Forget it," Rory flung his hands in the air. "I'm just a bit pissed off at The Doctor okay?

"Confront him? Anyway just tell the others you didn't feel well or something, and that's why you were a little edgy with John? They'll take whatever lie you throw them. Well, Sherlock won't..."

"And what if he speaks up, Dean? What if he confronts him in front of everyone?"

"He won't. And if he did, why would it be such a big deal?"

"Amy will not be happy when she finds out that I've kept something as... huge as this from her," Rory's hands shook, the thoughts racking his body as he threatened to explode. "And by not happy, I mean that I'll probably be dead before tomorrow."

"It's The Doctor she should be mad at, Rory!" Dean tried to coerce him into changing his mind. "It's that stubborn ass' fault! Just go in there and lie your little butt off. It'll be fine."

...

It was as if the answers to all of life's questions had stepped into the room with them. They stared at him, waiting for him to admit that he wasn't okay; but there wasn't even an utterance. Rory just stood, feeling the words crawl around his tonsils as he attempted to swallow them back to delay the explosion. Their eyes watched him as he took a few steps forward, opening wide at every quiver of his lips.

"I..." the sound of Rory's voice made them jolt.

"What's wrong, Rory?" Amy pressed, glaring at her husband.

"I just didn't feel well, okay?" his words were a little to quick for Amy's liking. "That's why I was off with you earlier, John. I just felt really bad, and I wasn't thinking straight."

"I don't believe you," Amy stared at him, her eyes widening with concern. "I want the truth."

"Um," Rory mumbled, his eyes drifting off in The Doctor's direction, seeing him clench his teeth in distress.

"Rory, please."

"The Doctor's dying, okay?" and there was the explosion. "And he refuses to bloody cure himself, because he wants to be the huge big sacrifice in this war with Gallifrey, or whatever the hell this is!"

"Rory, I told you not to speak of thi-" The Doctor calmly looked at him as he spoke assertively.

"If I told you that you had to carry the world on your shoulders, do you really think you'd be expected to just sit down and accept it?!"

"Rory..-"

"This is your fault!"

"I'm so sorry, but Rory-"

"No, THIS IS YOUR FAULT!" he snapped, snarling with rage. "Explain yourself, Doctor. Tell them what's wrong with you. Tell them that you had no intention in telling them until now. Tell them that even though you knew I probably couldn't handle it, you still told me, and made me keep it to myself!"

"I can't believe you!" Amy flung her hands in the air with anger, edging closer towards the door. "Either of you! How could you keep the fact that he's going to die from us? Did it ever cross your stupid little minds that maybe it was something that we kind of needed to know?"

"Amy...-" Rory reached for her hand; for a little bit of reassurance.

"No..." she shoved his hand away, escaping the room to seek refuge in the TARDIS.

"I think you owe us an explanation, Doctor." John stated sensibly.

"I'm dying, yes," his voice was cold; almost emotionless. "Something I picked up in Apalapucia. And no, I'm not going to treat myself. And no, I cannot just regenerate. I'll be fine for a while, but in under a year, I'll probably be weak."

"Why don't you seem ill?" John observed.

"The disease is robbing me of my regenerative energy. It's gradual, and thankfully very slow. I'm begin to tire more easily, and I'm more vulnerable to illness because it takes longer to repair myself. For at least the next two or three months, I still need less sleep than all of you humans, and you're more likely to pick up things than I am- I just don't have my usual Time Lord capacity for these things."

"And why didn't you tell us?"

"You will want me to treat myself. I don't want to treat myself."

"Why not?"

"He feels like he has to die," Sherlock sighed quickly, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "He's spent all this time trying to make himself believe that this is what he wants- to rid himself of another few hundred years travelling in his lonely blue box and breaking hearts- yet he can't seem to convince himself from steering away from the truth. He knows he's living on borrowed time yet deep down in his hearts he knows that what he really wants is to borrow more of it; to spend more time whisking ordinary little humans away to see extraordinary things. Ask yourself this, Doctor. What do you value more? Ridding the universe of the chaos and destruction you seem to cause, or providing the universe with the capacity for great things?"